Soul Name
by Luminara Unduli
Summary: Mariah Xirri sees herself as a survivor, nothing more. Her parents are dead, her brother is gone. When her class becomes the target of an anti-human organization, her actions save lives, but leave her branded as cold and merciless. She pretends not to care. However, one person attempts to catch a glimpse of her true self through the delicate cracks in her mask. Post-war; OC.
1. Chapter 1

_Allen,_

_I remember when I was young, and you would come home for a few days on leave. You would wait until mom and dad were asleep before you would help me sneak out of my room. We would tiptoe to the basement and there construct our mansion of blankets and pillows. Then we would stay up all night and you would tell me all of your adventures, the familiar stories I loved, stories I heard a dozen times and still begged to hear over and over again._

_I listened to your strong and steady voice tell the tales, and longed for my life to be as exciting as yours, like a never-ending adventure. I wanted to grow up and be just like you, as younger sisters often dream. Do you remember when I asked you if we were twins? We were always so alike, though fourteen years apart, and we were inseparable when together._

_As I write this now, the transport to the sky station where we will wait to board for flight to the Citadel is loading. Attendants are rushing to and fro, assisting the boarding passengers and I regard them cautiously, with the eyes of someone always on alert for the nearest threat. This will be my first time leaving Earth. It is still difficult to believe that I, out of so many, was chosen for this opportunity. There is a girl with silvery hair across the aisle who looks just as out of place as I do amongst the rest of the passengers who are either on official business with the Alliance or her subsidiaries, or extremely wealthy. She has glanced my way a few times and I smile, hoping to reassure her somewhat. She and I are alike; no words need to pass between us in confirmation. It is something we both know, and feel. There is a bond similarly shared between those of us who grew up in the months during the invasion, those whose lives were diverted from normalcy to a time of fear and desperation. We are brothers and sisters, all of us._

_Mariah_

**Chapter 1**

It was a wretched realization that nearly everything I owned could be packed in a medium-sized duffel bag.

That's not to say the fact had eluded me in the past, but it was something entirely different to see it all before me, like a miserable little trove of artifacts whose scarcity told tales of my loneliness. It seemed my life was laid out before me on my bunk, a pathetic display of few accomplishments and even fewer sentiments.

I owned a couple of sets of slacks and shirts that were stained and mended; the nicest articles already on my back. The white tunic was a little dingy but it had no major holes or stains and the slacks were almost new, if not a little snug. Shoes were another matter: I only had the one pair and they were looking haggard, but I had been genetically cursed with large feet and size elevens were hard to find, even in the best of times. Flickering text on a cracked data pad listed my flight itinerary – the device itself functioned half of the time at best. Only the die-hard habit of saving everything, and the fact that it had been a gift, kept me from tossing it in the trash. Beyond the clothing and the data pad there were only a few toiletries, an old folded photo of myself and my brother, and a few paperback books including the most recent book I had been reading, _Wives and Daughters_.

My most valuable possession, both by monetary and prideful standards, was waiting on the side table for its new owner to arrive. Passing it on felt like a betrayal; the gun had been my silent companion for almost ten years, steady and constant. I doubted the embassy would allow me to take it with me. Matthew Howe, one of my long-time neighbors and one of the oldest members of our community, had made an offer I couldn't refuse and I was less anxious knowing that at least it was going to someone who would appreciate its worth. In fact, it had once belonged to him.

Matthew was a sordid man, the kind most people would take care to avoid in public places. Of course, that was in the old days. Matt now held a place of respect in our community. He spent four years in the coast guard, stationed all over the great lakes during his career with a six-month stint in Alaska. Afterwords he took over the family business in a small-time gun shop, letting his sixty-eight year old father retire. He was our resident weapons expert and taught me most of what I knew about shooting a gun.

I met him when I was fourteen, trying desperately to hunt for food with a heavily modded pistol I found at an old mercenary camp. I remember his laughter, a heady guffaw that resounded off the trees and seemed to make the branches sway around us. He offered me his rifle, taught me to aim at my target down the sweet spot of the sight, to brace for the kickback. He helped me lug my prize back to the small camp of six hungry and cold adolescents who had banded together in a desperate grasp at survival. After teaching us how to skin, dissect and dress the deer, he showed us how to cook and preserve the meat. Following that day he stuck around, became one of us and was accepted as a surrogate parent, a fact which I often suspected he resented.

He came heavily armed, even had a weapons cache in the woods and we felt safer for it, our bellies fuller in those first weeks than they had been in a year, our few hours of sleep less fitful, as he taught us what he know of living off the land. I often wondered how long he had been alone before joining up, where he had come from, what he had lost and endured. What kind of level of desperation and loneliness would lead a man with the means of providing for himself to befriend a group of starving teens? Despite my curiosity I didn't ask. There were just some lines you didn't cross, and this one was in the middle of a minefield.

Knowing Matt would arrive at any time to collect the weapon, I had left the heavy door to the container that was my residence open. His boots clanked up the ramp and I turned to welcome him in.

"Hey kid," he said with a nod, tipping his tattered hat with two fingers.

"Hey, Matt. It's over there." I pointed to the table where I had laid the gun. He inspected it then put it in an empty holster on his bet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of bills and handed it to me.

"You know this gun used to be yours, right?"

"You're gonna need it. Take it," he demanded.

After I shook my head and refused again, he tossed the stack onto the small table in the corner where the gun had been and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. Dirt and sweat covered his face; cut into the lines like the pleats of a sand dune. There was wisdom locked behind his dark eyes, and a thousand years of bad memories.

"I had a daughter. She was real smart, like you. Wanted to go to college, be some kind of scientist. I saved for years, knowing she was worth every credit I laid by. Irony is, she got her acceptance letter to MIT not two weeks before those squid bastards came. Had it framed, I was so proud." He had kept his eyes on the ground during his speech. Looked up at me now, his forehead creased in concern, eyes shadowed by the furrowing of his brow. "Make me proud, kid."

I walked over to the table and took the money, feeling the muscles tighten in my jaw. That was the first time he spoke of anything personal from his past. All his stories were about hunting or his time in the guard. People kept their dearest memories close, and the most tragic memories hidden. His confession was meant as a kindness, maybe an expression of sentiment or just as a motivator to take the money, and he all but said he thought of me as his daughter. It should have made me happy, but it only made me uncomfortable.

"I'll try." I met his eyes for a moment, afraid of what I would see, of what my own might betray. "Take care of my gun."

"Sure thing."

He left and I soon followed after shoving the rest of my belongings in the duffel bag, taking care to stash the money into a miss-matched sock. I would have to find a place to exchange the cash for credits before heading off planet, since I doubted that they would exchange ancient human money once on the Citadel.

The shuttle to the sky station arrived on schedule, but we were delayed before boarding the ship that would take us to the Citadel. My mind ran wild with imaginings of all kinds of terrible reasons for the delay, but my unease was eventually waylaid as our boarding number was called. The sky stations had once been vast structures of magnificent proportions, hovering in geosynchronous orbit a few miles above Earth. Now there was only one, serving all countries, governments and armed forces of the world, created from a hodgepodge of remnants of ships and other structures blown to pieces over a decade ago. The Earth Systems Alliance had their own sector, as did the larger countries and corporations who had been major financial contributors to the rebuilt structure. There were proposals to build a second station synchronized with the eastern hemisphere, but political and social policy had branded it a low priority and placed any plans on the back burner.

The waiting room housed a vast view port among the various seating arrangements and serpentines for queuing, and in the moments where my mind could escape the surreptitious panic I felt, I admired the view. I watched the comings and goings of shuttles, cargo ships and larger transports. There was even a crew of workers piecing together a new wing off in the distance. I had always wondered what a spacewalk would be like, how it would feel to be weightless with no resistance against my limbs; bound to nothing but the electro-magnetic tether and the current running through the hard suit, the fathomless void of vacuum all around me.

I thought of the fact that somewhere, perhaps in this room, there were fifteen others just like me, waiting to board the ship to a new possibility, a chance at bringing better things into their lives. There was the girl I recognized from the shuttle, with shimmering hair and clammy skin. She sat at the other end of the bench, wringing her hands, and I understood how she felt. To say I wasn't afraid or nervous would be a lie. I experienced all those sentiments keenly, like a frozen weight had slowly filled my chest to beyond its limits from the moment I stepped on board the first shuttle. Crossing my arms, I tried to steady my uneven breathing, willing my limbs to stop shaking and my fingers to find feeling again. Space was cold, they said, and I repeated this mantra, casting blame upon the thermodynamics of the universe for the fear that manifested in my mortal body.

Our group was finally allowed to board, and this time I made it a point to sit next to the girl with the silver hair. She was the only thing familiar, and something about her seemed to soothe my nerves. I had never been shy, usually just blunt and honest to a fault, a reputation which serviced me well and kept people at a distance, right where I liked them. She flickered a nervous smile in greeting and kept her eyes downcast, fumbling with a data pad that was obviously in another language, and not one that I recognized.

"Hello," I said, hoping I would be understood. A conversation would be a welcome distraction to all these new experiences that were both terrifying and enthralling.

"Hello." She flashed a bright smile, teeth white as porcelain. I felt a surprising pang of envy in knowing I was far from this girl's beauty with my dirty blond hair braided in haste, my skin tan and rough from working outside.

"I'm Mariah." I thought of offering a hand to shake, but the girl looked nervous enough.

"Sylvie," she responded, her voice soft and melodious.

"Off to the Citadel?" Obvious question, but I was trying my best to make polite conversation.

"Citadel? Oui. Yes." She punched a few commands into her data pad and held it up for me to see. The Galactic Youth Immersion Program, it read. So, she was also a recipient of the scholarship.

"Me too." Her few words told me she was not from this country, or even this continent. "You speak English?"

She responded with a shy shrug, and holding her fingers in a sign that meant _a little._

"Français?" she asked me.

"No, sorry." Would that we had grown up twenty years past, we would have both learned a half dozen languages in our schooling, including the language of galactic trade used by the other species before humans entered the picture. As it were, I knew my native American English and few words but greetings and goodbyes in other tongues.

She appeared to be young, perhaps younger than me at twenty-three. Her skin was pale and opalescent, her eyes a gossamer blue. The ethereal silvery hair, her most inimitable quality, was straight, tucked behind her ears and it followed down the length of her arm to her elbows. She absentmindedly twirled a strand in her off-hand while perusing her data pad. I thought she was certainly lucky to have one, along with the clean and crisp clothing she wore. Perhaps she was from a larger city, enjoying the privilege of being the priority of rebuilding efforts after the war. I hoped she hadn't noticed my shoes. They were markers of my origins, a small farming community where I and many others had found refuge after the war.

I was twelve years old when Earth was invaded by the Reapers and my thirteenth birthday passed during the occupation of Earth. It was a memory that felt distant and surreal, like the lingering nightmare of a horror movie watched in the dark. In the aftermath, it was all you talked about. Where you were when the first invasion hit, how many friends and family members died, who you knew in the Alliance Navy or in the home-grown Home Guard…There wasn't a human left that did not know someone who had died. Hundreds of millions dead in the war, millions more killed in the aftermath, and many colonies, countries and cities that would never be the same, many more simply forgotten. No one could cite the exact toll, though it was quite possible billions across all species had been silenced forever.

I still remembered the fiery decent of those demonic forms; how could I not? It blotted out any light left in the world, and though history counted the occupation in months, the effect rippled to years, and even though a decade had passed, there was still rubble to sort through, bodies to identify, and families to be notified of the final resting places of loved ones. There were still yet many aliens stranded on Earth and on many other planets and colonies throughout the galaxy. Some have since made Earth their new home, claiming sectors in cities across the planet and integrating with society as much as their own distinct culture would allow.

The progression of the invasion felt like something out of a history book, but this post-war world was unlike any other I had learned about in my short time in school. First there were the military sweeps amongst the declaration of martial law, then the wide spread rebellions, too spotty and numerous to be given distinct names other than their locations. Terrorists, opportunists and religious extremists took advantage of every downtrodden sentient they could spew their tireless rhetoric to, and everyone suffered.

And there came the scavengers (or opportunists, as they claimed), selling pieces of armor, metal scraps from ships destroyed in space and half-burnt up in atmo, memorabilia of the tragedy that had befallen all of humanity. After the scavengers came the hackers who, for a nominal fee, could attempt to contact family in other cities, continents, even planets using military-designated communication systems that were slowly reemerging across the galaxy. The aliens left stranded on Earth were desperate to know about their family and paid any price for information.

Slowly, very slowly, society began to piece itself back together only to have the fragile unity torn asunder yet again by factions warring for control in a pandemic post-war society, remnants of terrorist organizations, crime syndicates and street gangs; and the insatiable desire for individual survival that remained part of the human condition.

The major threats had to be eliminated before the Alliance was able to take back control and step in to begin the process of healing our broken home. My older brother was with the Alliance as an Intel Officer, and when my parents were taken, I was left alone with countless other kids my age. We stuck together, became a family of sorts. We built shelters, crafted our own society, learned skills none of us ever dreamed we would need.

And yes, we killed. Reapers, collectors, aliens and even other humans. Anyone who threatened our existence was dealt with thusly. And we survived.

And those of us who were kids at the time of the war later became known as the Forgotten Generation.

We passed our adolescent years not in schools but on the streets, in the consecrated rubble of a town that survived the invasion but fell prey to greed. We taught each other what we knew, we taught the younger ones to read and write, to aim and shoot a gun, how to hide from mercenaries with mere seconds of warning. What food and resources we had we shared with the group. If one went hungry, we all did.

I was nineteen when help finally came for us, though it was little more than crude structures and cast-off military supplies. They set up a small contingent of soldiers for protection, not knowing how little we needed it. We had become self-sufficient over the years, soldiers in our own rights. Our rescuers were more like a peace corps than a true military unit. When they first arrived I was wary; I had met with many declared MP's in the past that turned out to be less than genuine and cautiously greeted them down the barrel of my M-9. They didn't seem surprised at all, as if this was not the first confrontation they had witnessed.

Once the standoff was resolved, they set to work. They brought in old shipping containers and told us this is where we would live until proper structures could be built. They set up a soup-kitchen, a mess of sorts; provided us with the means to plant crude vegetables, passed out outdated MREs and overused water purifiers. There was clothing to be had, as long as you didn't care about how well it fit.

The best thing they brought, though, was the music.

Two of the soldiers had found some old guitars and brought them along with them. At night we would gather in the empty mess, the only building big enough to house our small community now counting eighty-four members. They would sing songs they knew, sometimes in other languages, and we would sing ours. It became an evening ritual, one that the soldiers said they had seen across the planet. This was our way to commune with one another. We couldn't talk about the past, or the loss. It was too soon; too deep a cut to just be cast about upon the tongues of others as if they were discussing the seasonal rains and how they would affect the crops. Five years, six years, seven and more gone by, and still it was not enough.

Occasionally some would drift home. Children were reunited with parents, now as adults themselves. They got the preferential treatment for the slow process of building dwelling structures. Slowly those who resided with me in the three-bunked shipping container left, and I was alone. I enjoyed having the space that was mine and mine alone, creating make-weight of the work to set it up to my preferences. I found old paint brought by a supply truck that had been looked over, and though the rust could still be seen, the walls looked much cleaner and brighter. With the help of one of the builders I cut a window in one of the walls, securing the metal piece with hinges that I could open and shut and a latch to keep it secure.

I dismantled the bunks and built a larger bed for myself, selling the leftover scraps and extra mattress in the free market for some extra credits. I considered buying some extranet time with some of the money but the prices had jacked up recently after some mercenary group had taken over one of the comm buoys and nearly destroyed it. Instead I went off to the library, thinking of hunting for a new book to read, pushing the possibility of sending a letter to my brother to the back of my mind for later consideration. It was there I heard the news about the first group of humans that were granted scholarships to study at the Citadel University. In a matter of hours the news spread around town. Everyone was talking about it. There was speculation that there would soon be another human embassy established. Relations between Earth and the rest of the galaxy had been severely tested, almost to the point of war, but over the past two years tensions had died down. There were still protests, but everyone knew it was inevitable that humanity would once again join the galactic community. The move would be cautious, perhaps slower than before, but it was a surety.

A year later, after Ambassador Julien had been chosen to serve humanity, the call went out for another wave of humans to attend the university. The Galactic Youth Immersion Program, it was called. However, functioning school systems existed only in larger cities, and they were still far from being on par with the education systems of decades previous. That's when the spotlight was shone on us, dubbed the Forgotten Generation. Many were like me, with only an eighth grade education, extended learning done through smatterings of reading and talking with travelers. Some never learned to read or write and became laborers instead, and felt it was unnecessary at this point in their lives.

The Ambassador, along with the Systems Alliance Prime Minister, came to the conclusion that to equalize the field, to better serve the smaller communities ravished by war, the next group of scholars would be chosen at random, from rural areas, and encouraged anyone interested to register for the lottery of a lifetime. Those chosen would attend the university from four to six years, all expenses of tuition and board paid, and they would be encouraged to return home to start or strengthen the schools of their chosen community. The lottery would be sponsored every year, and sixteen lucky individuals would get the opportunity.

I could not believe it when I learned I had won.

My community rejoiced, offered me congratulations and wished me luck. They took a collection in my name and I climbed on the shuttle three hundred credits richer. These people who had become my family gave me what they had, smiles on their faces and optimism in their eyes.

Try as I might, I could not take my parting at face value. I looked at them and saw only greed. How many of them actually knew me before this lucky turn of events? They saw only how I could help them and better their lives. A lifetime of being taken advantage of had taught me one surely and important lesson: survival at any cost. And to them, I was a means of survival. They would take me for all I was worth and only leave me alone when I could no longer service their needs or desires.

I looked to the young girl next to me, now asleep, wondering if similar thoughts had crossed her mind as she departed. She certainly wanted for less, based on her appearance; her clothing being clean and fitting her nicely, her data pad that still lit up beneath slender fingers free of cracks and imperfections, though I knew it was illogical for me to form these conclsions. If the beginning of her journey was anything like mine, she had not slept since receiving her acceptance letter. She would be exhausted, as was I, but whether it was to be blamed on excitement, adrenaline or fear, I could not sleep, could not rest. I could only spend the time of travel staring out the small view port, ignoring the paperback book in my hand, wondering if I had made the right choice.


	2. Chapter 2

_Allen,_

_As we waited in the terminal, a news report flashed on a nearby panel. It was about us, coincidentally, the students chosen from Earth to attend the Citadel University with a full scholarship. The author was obviously biased; he said the venture was doomed to failure, and the sooner humans realize they are no longer welcomed in Citadel space, the better for everyone. They cited terrible actions that humanity was responsible for, including the death of hundreds of thousands of batarians._

_It's true to say that the actions of one can overshadow us all. One person, whether under duress or caught up in desperate circumstances, makes one decision, and the consequences ripple down throughout the years and are felt across the known universe._

_Maybe what they say is true. Maybe Cerberus was really a front for a secret government agenda. We heard nothing but bad things about them, when we even got any news, anyway. But none of it signifies now, not when we are all broken._

_Can't they see we'd be better off fighting together for our survival?_

_Mariah_

**Chapter 2**

I would have liked to have seen the Citadel as we approached, but we were traveling in a modified cargo ship, and necessity allowed for few luxuries. The tiny windows installed throughout the interior showed nothing but distant stars. Instead of cursing our approach vector, I attempted to quell the nervousness by turning to my book, something that Molly herself would have done. She was an avid reader of poetry, though it was not "steady reading" as her father called it. I wondered what she would think of her biography, if she could jump into this outer dimension.

When the docking process began, several passengers started to round up their belongings in anticipation. I took one last glance at my itinerary to confirm the next destination, a shuttle launch pad just outside of the docking bay. We were to meet at Shuttle Pad 22, where we would be taken to our dormitories. The transport docked without ceremony, except for a few announcements made in several languages I could not understand, and I gathered my things while helping Sylvie with her multiple overstuffed bags which put my single duffel bag to shame. We debarked the ship in an avalanche of people, all human. I scanned the crowd, and it wasn't difficult to spot the other prospective students. For most of them, their attire was a dead giveaway, worn and shabby in comparison to the travel clothes of humanity's most fortunate. Typical visitors of the Citadel were wealthy or connected to various government organizations like dignitaries and military personnel.

I stayed with Sylvie as we entered the docking bay proper. There were signs, displays, vid screens and any primitive to advanced technology possible scattered around the area. My eyes attempted to take it all in, but the flashing lights and echoing sounds only made me feel dizzy and I nearly lost my grip on the luggage. Sylvie tapped me on the arm to get my attention and pointed to her data pad. She had pulled up a map of our location, probably even supplied along with the itinerary. I was always terrible with directions, and I was glad at that moment I had chosen to sit with her. She smiled and pointed out a direction, and I followed.

It wasn't difficult for me to notice that we were being followed. My instincts picked it up fairly quickly, and they also told me it was not a threat. The other students had taken the cue from Sylvie, and were following us towards the shuttle platforms. We wound our way through the crowd, and as it thinned, our group became a collection of fifteen. There was another, and I eventually spotted her, keeping several paces behind but following nonetheless.

There were two uniformed men waiting at pad 22, possibly the pilots. Matching visors and jumpsuits told me nothing about their affiliation. We loaded onto a shuttle, which in actuality was more like a large skycar. I had my doubts that this vehicle would actually hold up in the vacuum of space. On the way to our destination, I regarded each student with scrutiny. Most of them were easy to read; mild mannered, nervous, and curious. Others were standoffish, planting their feet apart and crossing arms, staring straight ahead and glaring daggers at anyone who dared to look at them. I was unobtrusive in my information-seeking curiosity, careful not to look to long, fully aware that they all may have years of horrific memories locked behind icy eyes. Like me, they had kept the nightmares at bay with years of hard work as a distraction.

They dropped us at the mid-level of a new building and we filed out of the shuttle. Our entourage was then crammed into two elevators, along with all of our belongings intended to sustain us for four years of student-hood. After the elevators, we were led into a wide hallway where two woman waited, false smiles on their faces. They were introduced only as "attendants", with no names.

The pilots left us in the hands of the attendants, and I inspected my new residence as the attendsnts led us down a hallway and into two larger rooms which were connected. Our group of sixteen had the entire corridor to ourselves, they said, and from a tactical standpoint I saw the wisdom. The long hallway had three exit points, each with obvious video surveillance. One exit even led to a platform large enough to land a shuttle, a point of evacuation if the situation ever arose. There were two common areas, one set with two large tables with chairs and the other with couches, desks, shelves. A large screen covered one of the corner walls and the adjacent wall was made entirely of a view port. Several of the students congregated at the window and admired the view.

After a few minutes of exploration, the attendants led us from the common areas to a hallway with doors on either side, labeled with numbers. She listed names at each door, assigning our sleeping areas. She told us we were allowed to change roommates as we chose, but we should inform the attendants. I was assigned with a girl named Kyla Derringer, but she quickly made it known that she wanted to room with someone else, and so I was assigned to live with the other cast-off. As luck would have it, Sylvie was my new roommate, and I felt

warmth on the back of my neck when she smiled at me.

The room was small, smartly arranged, as if a mirror stood between the two sides. Both beds were up on lofts in opposite corners of the room. Underneath was a desk, chair and a small bookshelf. A panel on the wall was a false window – common on the Citadel and in prefab structures. The light was simulated to look like the natural path of the sun. Below the window was a small couch, although sensible, obviously not made for comfort. I threw my bag on the couch and opened the sliding door closet on my chosen side of the room. One side was for hanging clothing with a small shelf above, the other side contained a dresser with a lock-safe on top. Instructions for programming were printed on the inside.

The couch had two drawers beneath it. There were two bookshelves standing as supports to the loft, stairs at the end of the bed. I was happy to see there would be enough space for me to both stand up beneath the loft and sit up on the bed without hitting my head. Another concern was the shower, and though small, it was adequate. The shared bathroom also had two cupboards beneath the sink for toiletries and a small mirror above the sink.

After allowing us to gain our bearings they escorted us down to a market area. For being an indoor complex the place was vast. You could stand in the exact middle and not see the end from any direction. They told us this was the student's main shopping area and we could find anything we needed or desired in this single location. We were all handed chits that contained a weekly allowance which would be refreshed before the school week began. There were food vendors, shops and also a student supply store where they took us in and passed out omni-tools, data pads, notebooks, battery packs and other various items. They led us through a couple of the shops where we could buy clothes, snacks or anything else. With the money raised by my community and what I had from selling my pistol I bought a few clothing items to supplement what meager items I already had.

As we headed back to the living quarters, many of the students were eying the food vendors. The attendants told us there would be a meal waiting for us when we returned, where we would also be introduced to our hosts.

A blond boy elbowed me and grinned. "I feel a bit like a kid, how about you?"

"I suppose."

"I'm Derek."

"Mariah."

"Didn't think this was what it would be like when I signed up," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"I don't think anyone knew what to expect." I glanced around the group, varying expressions on the faces of the other students. Derek nodded, noting he had followed my train of thought.

"They're all afraid. All except you."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"I've been watching you since we got of the transport, how you measured up the group, how you mapped out the exits, noted their locations."

He had been watching me, and the thought made the tips of my fingers tingle. "What does that make you, then?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "It makes us the same. Think about it. The reason why I noticed what you were doing was because I was doing the same thing."

"Old habit, I guess."

"Truth, my friend. Truth."

"So if we're alike, then, does that mean you're not afraid of all this?"

"Something like that. Perception is everything."

He had sized me up quickly, and I found it disconcerting that I hadn't noticed him watching me. I assumed that my classmates would be automatically allies, on my side, and that assumption could lead to a fatal mistake. Maybe he was warning me to watch my back, or maybe he was telling me he had mine if I had his. I couldn't say. He was maddeningly difficult to read, for someone like me especially, who believed my fate could be determined on my ability to read someone's intentions by their stance and demeanor. Subtle body language spoke volumes about a person, even if they were trying to hide it. This guy had swept under my radar, and I couldn't help but think that it was his hard-earned skills that kept him from being noticed unless he desired it.

When we got back to the dormatory, there were two people waiting for us. Mrs. Jackson and Evan Carter, as they were introduced, would be our "hosts". They had rooms at the end of the hall and were available at any time, for any reason. Employed by the embassy, their official titles went something like "Officer of Human Relations in Higher Education for the Forgotten Generation". It was a long-winded dirge to the political importance of our presence on the Citadel. Between the two of them they had every language of the group covered.

They ate with us, the paltry meal of bread, potatoes and carrots, and a beef broth with small bits of meat sitting at the bottom of the bowl. The group seemed perturbed about the meagerness, but I saw the wisdom in it. A system accustomed to eating smaller rations over the course of many years would be shocked by the sudden influx of rich food, and those who have been hungry every one of those days would find it hard to restrict themselves.

After the meal the hosts stood up and asked us to introduce ourselves. We went around the table and gave names, home towns, and a few random facts like Derek's enthusiastic "I love to play baseball!" and Sylvie's "Music, any kind," and the hosts translated everything for the group. When it came to my turn, I could only think of one thing.

"Reading. I like to read books, stories, anything really." Which wasn't completely the truth, but easier than spending fifteen minutes describing my eclectic and varied tastes. Over the years, reading had become my one escape from the dimness of reality. I loved to hear about the stories of characters I would never meet, people so different from me and lives far, far away in this world or others.

When we were finished Mrs. Jackson clasped her hands together and cleared her throat. "As you all have noticed, there are attendants around to see to your comfort. As you are new to the Citadel, we are also here to be your guides. We will escort you to and from your classes for the next few weeks. It is easy to get lost in a place as vast as this one, and the guidelines we have given you are not without wisdom or reason. However, as you learn your way around this place and we become confident in your knowledge we will allow you more freedom, and by your second term you will be able to come and go as you please, on your own if you wish. These rules are for your safety and adherence to them a condition of your scholarship. Please keep that in mind."

And with that we were dismissed. Some lingered in the common room, some cloistered themselves in their assigned rooms. I sat next to Sylvie on one of the plush couches in the common room, playing around with the multiple functions on my new omni-tool. Sometimes she would giggle at me and shake her head, then point to an indicator or a holographic button. Her eyes brightened as a thought seemed to overtake her and she whisked her own device through a series of screens and selections. She then held out her arm to me and nodded her head, but I was confused.

"What? What do you want?"

As I spoke her display flickered with my words in English, then immediately switched to French. She propped herself up on her knees excitedly.

"Wow, you brilliant girl. That's pretty clever." She flushed when she read the translation of my words, then quickly spoke her own reply which her screen in turn transfigured into English.

"Not brilliant, just lucky."

We spent the next hour having a conversation in short, quipped sentences, learning things about each other such as our favorite color, birthday, names of siblings and parents. Innocuous things, that could have lead into dangerous zones, but we were both pleasantly limited by the language barrier and had no thought of taking it any further.

She told me she was born and lived all her life in France, in a small providence I could not pronounce. She loved music, could play the violin and piano well, though she hadn't had that opportunity in quite a while. Her parents encouraged her to sign up for the scholarship, a chance for her to apply her brilliant mind to something better suited for her than working in a factory. She told me nearly everyone in the town worked in the factories, starting the day they turned sixteen. I tried to imagine myself in the workroom of a textiles factory, spending hour after hour in the same repetitive motion, day after day.

At least in my town we were allowed to change jobs as it suited us. In the earlier days we had an assigned rotation of duties, but we were never forced to do something endlessly. It was slowly becoming more like it was before, a capitalist free-market where business owners would succeed and fail based on their hard work, lust for success, and just a little bit of luck. Most people could provide for themselves and their families, but the soup kitchen was still in operation to supplement for food. No one was required, but everyone volunteered and donated extra resources to help the community. There was a free store, even, where you could leave unwanted articles and exchange them for something someone else left behind. You could choose not to participate in programs benefiting the community, but everyone would eventually know about it. If there was a true desperation behind the act they would be forgiven and overlooked. If not, they would be known as greedy, not associated with and it would be a hard fight for that person to get help from others if they needed it at a later time. Even after the use of money had been re-introduced, people still bartered everything from their time to their lands, scraps of metal and synthetic materials to food and crops grown from prized gardens.

The next morning we all loaded onto the shuttle. Most were still rubbing their bleary eyes, suffering from a hard night's sleep in a new place. We were instructed to wear our best, which for me meant the same clothing I had worn yesterday, and I certainly wasn't the only one. Sylvie was simplistically dazzling in a pale blue floor-length dress, a style which never ceased to frustrate me in its sheer ridiculousness. How could anyone work, or for that matter, defend themselves in something so impractical? The girl was already blushing when I went to sit next to her. The other students had noticed and some hadn't kept their opinions to themselves. Some were in words I couldn't understand but it wasn't hard to discern their meanings or intent through the tones they exhibited and looks they gave her.

"You look nice," I said, resting my hand on her wrist. "Nicer than any of us by far. They're just jealous."

She simply nodded, but didn't look at me. She hadn't even attempted to translate my words, but she understood my own intent of comforting her. It was true, though, that they were jealous. When they saw her they didn't see a girl who had toiled in factories since she was sixteen. They saw the cleanliness of her fingernails, her clothing, her hair, and made a judgment. They thought she was wealthy, that she didn't belong among the group of destitute students searching for a way out of lives going nowhere.

"Ma mere a fait," she said, her words barely audible. My omni-toll flashed the translation.

"Your mother made it?" She nodded. It made sense. Working in a textile factory would give her access to materials, to the skills to create a garment of high quality.

We were led to a room with three tables in the shape of a U. There was a small platform in the front, a podium in the center. Moments later, Ambassador Julien came through the door, flanked by Alliance officers in dress blues and others in full gear, weapons and all. She was not a beautiful woman, her face mauled by a burn and scars. Her hair was going gray at the temples. What struck me was her poise, the straight-backed pride and blazing eyes full of determination. She was not full of zealous hope or pointless endearments. Her words rang with truth, and even those who needed to consult their omni-tools for a translation of her words absorbed her demeanor through the atmosphere in the room.

"Greetings, students. I welcome you to the Citadel. As citizens of the Systems Alliance, we have a long road ahead of us, and your generation will inherit what is left of our world, our dominion.

"I won't lie to you," she said, and waited as the interpreters caught up with her speech. "This will not be an easy road. There are those who would like to see you fail. Unfortunately, your successes and failures will be reported to the council. I don't mean to place pressure on you, but this is very important. Your time here will determine whether or not this program continues.

"I have done my best to make sure the media will not bother you, but it is probable that reports will be leaked, perhaps even pictures or video footage. To that effect, I say this. Be on your guard, at all times, especially out in the public. We are in a delicate situation, we are balancing on the rafters of an unstable roof, and any wrong step or twist of the ankle could be disastrous for us all." She paused, shifting on her feet, her lips pursing in a grimace. I knew that expression well, of someone in pain trying to hold it back. She continued, undaunted.

"The first semester of your tenure here will involve acclimation to Citadel life, introduction to cultures and peoples with whom we share the galaxy. I know many, if not all of you haven't had an education much beyond middle school, but I have full faith in the curriculum that was created here to both bring you up to speed, as well as prepare you for the careers of your choice.

"As stated in your contracts you all signed at your prospective Embassies on Earth, you are free to leave at any time. We understand that circumstances may call you elsewhere, however, you will have to provide your own transportation other than what is arranged at holidays. If you are absent from the program for an entire semester, your scholarship will be revoked and you won't be allowed to return. Likewise, you will also be required to follow all guidelines, fulfill all duties set before you by your hosts whom you will soon meet. If your conduct is deemed unsatisfactory, you will be discharged from the program. This is not just a free ride to the Citadel, as some of your predecessors assumed."

I recalled the story of the first group, then, and wondered at why we had heard nothing about them in the subsequent years. Perhaps they all had failed, and had been sent home.

She stepped down from the podium and we applauded, as politeness would dictate, despite the warning in her voice at the final words. The ambassador was gracious, reassuring, took time to speak with each one of us. I didn't have much to say to her, other than the usual pleasantries. I thanked her for the opportunity, and couldn't shake the feeling that she was sizing me up, just as Derek had done. She gave me a curt nod before moving down the line to the next student. We were dismissed later, and a feeling of cautious optimism radiated from the group.

I listened to some of the whispers around me with my translator on, noticing that some were overly concerned as to who wanted us to fail. They also wondered at the wisdom of telling us something that would cause fear amongst the group. Some students were already saying they would go home, that they hadn't signed up to be political pawns. Not me, though. I liked knowing where I stood. Knowledge of our position had the opposite effect on me; it prepared me for the worst. _There are those who would like to see you fail. _It was a warning, mildly delivered, but it served to put me on my guard.

I watched as Derek circled the group, resting his hand on the shoulders of some, offering words to others. It might have appeared as sympathy to some, but not to me. The guy was smart. If the group had confidence instead of fear, our chances of survival were higher. Fear often separated groups that would be stronger in standing together. It would separate and corner the weakest, much like a predator in the wild, and take them out one by one. The loss of the weak would tear at the morale of the strongest, and the predator would have less defenses to withstand when they finally went in for the kill.

When Derek reached Sylvie, I saw her look at him with something more than the release of fear in her face. I looked away. Personal connection was foolish, another flaw to be exploited. I had learned my own lesson in the past, and admittedly, on more than one occasion. There were but two people in the entirety of the galaxy I trusted completely, and as one of them was myself, that left the other slot for my brother, Allen, who was as far away from me as anyone could possibly be.

I would be congenial, cordial, kind even. I would practice any and all social conventions as the situation required, but behind them all would always be selfishness. Survival was all that mattered. I looked at Sylvie and saw danger. Perhaps it would be better, for the both of us, if I stayed distant, but something about her drew me in, made me want to protect her. She seemed a figment unsullied by all the vice in the universe. She had a natural shield to it, even to the sorrows everyone had simultaneously faced. It would be a risk, to seek her friendship, and I saw possibilities of this folly fall into place in my constant imagination, spelling disaster in many formidable ways.

However, there was a chance, a slim one, that it could beget something good. And I felt how the Universe owed me, that in the grand cosmic scale of good and bad karma, in the way humans seem to justify such things, I was due for something good. So against my better judgment, against the silent warning voice inside of my head that told me to stay away, I went and sat down next to her, offering the most hopeful smile I was able to bestow.


End file.
